


Simple, Crude, Insufficient Words

by MsBanks



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBanks/pseuds/MsBanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let it be me who goes, at least. I will not allow him to slip through my fingers again.”<br/>“You!” the mayor laughed. “He knows you, does he not? He would recognize you at once.”<br/>“Convicts such as him see only the uniform – he will never recognize the man.”</p>
<p>In which Javert goes undercover at number 50-52, desperately attempts to remain on the right side of the fine line between love and hate, and is wrong about nearly everything nearly all of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story breaks a self-imposed don't-write-fanfic rule of 5+ years. Oops. It references events from the book (most importantly Jean Valjean's brief return to the galleys in between Fantine's death and Cosette's rescue) but quickly careens off the tracks into ridiculousness. It is written a little like the book, because I've read so much of it in such a short amount of time that I now think in translated French; it undoubtedly contradicts the book, because I haven't yet finished reading it. I am also pretty sure it's terrible. But that's okay with me.

There are certain pairs of people in this life whom some force of the universe – call it Providence or Fate, to your liking – seems determined to thrust together. Such people, regardless of their social status, their temperament, even at times their own desire, find their paths converging time and time again, often against seemingly insurmountable odds. To a lucky few such pairs, who are naturally well-matched and occupy positions in this world which are not born to natural conflict, this force is a great and benevolent one. They call it names like true love, and each other soulmate. Such people often marry, and live out their days in a type of bliss that is rare indeed, full of the quiet and enduring joy that comes with being one half of a whole that has been bound together by some higher force.

There are other such pairs, however, who are far less fortunate – those whom society has conspired to keep apart even as this indefatigable force draws them ever closer. These unhappy souls must struggle in vain against the bonds of fate that bind them; they grow to despise and fear the face of the one to which they are intrinsically linked, even as it appears in their dreams and consumes their waking thoughts. Hate takes hold where love might have blossomed had circumstances been less cruel; not even the death of one or the other can truly set them free, for instead of relief, the living is forever plagued with a shapeless regret that cannot be explained, and can never hope to be laid to rest.

So it was with Police Inspector Javert and the convict Jean Valjean.

Neither of the two was truly conscious of this bond, although at times they felt its pull as if it were a physical thing. Such is often the case with the unhappy members of this second class of people. The words employed by the former class of pairs, sweet endearments like “soulmate,” imply a love freely given that is absent in the latter’s case. Instead they must make do with calling each other sneering names like rival or nemesis, simple crude words that cannot begin to capture the hopeless depth of obsession and directionless hunger which the other inspires in them. The woeful imprecision of language has damned them: one can scarcely hope to understand a thing which one calls by an insufficient name, or for which no sufficient names exist.

Inspector Javert called Jean Valjean “criminal” and “scum” and “the constant thorn in my side.” When Valjean was recaptured for the second time after his long reprieve in M. sur M. and sent to the galleys once more, Javert’s delight was real and immense and unfaltering. His pleasure went beyond his usual quiet satisfaction at seeing justice done.

But when he received word that the prisoner Jean Valjean had fallen into the sea and drowned, he felt nothing so much as a vague, yet fierce disappointment for which he could not hope to account. For a period of time following this news, Javert was prone to silences more profound than usual, and from which he was in the habit of emerging with a flinty pronouncement of relief that “such a dangerous criminal will never escape again;” those few people who spent any great deal of time around him soon grew tired of hearing such statements. In this way, by sharing these false declarations with as many people as possible, Javert sought to render the sentiment true.

It did not work as he hoped. The knowledge that Jean Valjean existed somewhere in the world, whether as a fugitive from justice or as a prisoner of the law, had become vital to him in some way; the very air seemed different without this knowledge, still capable of sustaining life but missing some indispensable component that it once had offered him with every breath. Valjean alive was a thorn in his side, once removed, it left a wound in Javert that Javert could not explain, and which did not heal.

So it went for over a year. The man who had succeeded M. Madeleine as mayor was in some ways more reprehensible to Javert than the convict had been; this blackguard did not even play at niceties. When the opportunity came, in the form of a transfer to the Parisian police, to remove himself from M. sur M., Javert quickly and readily accepted it. During this time the hole which Valjean’s death had opened up in him continued to quietly bleed – one cannot bandage and tend to a hurt which one refuses to acknowledge.

We cannot know if this injury would have ever gradually closed and scarred over of its own accord, for some fourteen months after Javert had received the news of the death of Jean Valjean, he was accosted on his daily rounds by a runner for the police who bore the following breathless message:

“Sir – you are wanted at the station - the criminal Jean Valjean has been found – he is alive.”

What profound effect these few words had on the man! What sweet and familiar torment flooded his consciousness at once! For several moments he found himself unable to make any reply; he had the peculiar sensation of his spirits leaping even as a familiar fury kindled within him; he felt like a man who only when suffering some deadly disease can feel well.

He made his way to the police station at once, full of familiar wrath at Jean Valjean for escaping, for having been thought dead, for living again. Yet he felt a breathless anticipation, too – he was scarcely able to believe that he might once more look upon the man whose phantom had troubled his dreams these long months past.

“Where is he?” he demanded as soon as he strode through the door. The mayor was standing within the room, in conversation with two gendarmes; it was to him that Javert directed his barrage of questions. “The prisoner Jean Valjean - where is he being held? I must see him at once. I must determine if it is indeed him. Thought he could hide forever, did he? Nineteen years a prisoner and still he underestimates the power of the law – ha! He shall yet be cured of that!”

All this before the mayor could say a single word.

“We do not have him here,” said the mayor calmly, when Javert paused at last.

“He is being held somewhere else?” Javert supplied expectantly. “Very well. I might have expected. I will leave at once.”

“He is not in captivity.”

At these words, a measure of uncertainty crept into Javert’s manner. He had been standing very still and very straight, as calm in appearance as he was excited in speech, but now he inclined his head forward as if he had not heard the mayor correctly, and his words came less quickly. “Then – then we know only that he is living, and not where he hides?”

“No. We have obtained an address.”

“Ah,” said Javert, and straightened himself again. “Certainly forces are on their way to apprehend him.”

The mayor sighed. “We do not have plans to arrest the man. Not immediately.” He spoke as if the words caused him some little pain.

Javert’s expression did not change; his impeccable posture did not falter, but something about him shifted; the cold glint that was in his eyes abruptly extinguished, and when he spoke his voice was disbelieving. “Monsieur?”

The mayor related to him, rather unhappily, the following information. Another convict, this one the head of a formidable band of Paris thieves, had escaped from the galleys some months ago. During his time at Toulon, he had been chained to Jean Valjean. It was believed that he was in Paris again, and that the two fugitives were working in concert, but thus far only the location of Jean Valjean had been divined. The police, and the mayor, suspected that the latter criminal might lead them to the former.

Javert listened to this gravely. At length he said: “It is a simple thing. We shall arrest Valjean. He will lead us to his confederate.”

The mayor shook his head. “It will not be that simple, Inspector. He will not talk so easily.”

“We shall compel him to speak.” Javert spit the words through his teeth as if the hypothetically reticent Valjean were cowering before him already.

“We may try, and fail, and the man and his band of thieves go back into hiding again – we cannot risk it.”

“But surely - we cannot allow the convict to go free…?” Javert sounded desperate. The excitement which had colored his speech moments earlier was utterly gone.

“Certainly we will not!”

The mayor, along with the two gendarmes, had concocted a plan. It had been determined that the criminal lived in a decrepit little hovel near the edge of the city, alone but for a child of six or seven years and an old housekeeper – “this woman has been spying on him some days now; it was she who alerted us to his presence.” The housekeeper, fearing for her safety, had been easily enticed to accept an agent of the police as a lodger; this man would play the dual roles of spy and turnkey. Under his watchful eye, the fugitive Jean Valjean would be unable to escape, and when the diligent agent spied him in conference with the other convict, both would be apprehended and the network of criminals revealed.

Before this moment presented itself, the agent would sleep under the same roof as the criminal, take his meals alongside him, and draw him out with polite conversation. These were necessary debasements.

Throughout the explanation of this plan Javert listened with his customary air of obedient deference, but he was unable to keep a sour look from creeping across his features.

“Mr. Mayor, I beg your pardon - it cannot be done. They will both escape,” he insisted, though he kept his eyes downcast and spoke with the utmost respect. The depths of his convictions can be easily imagined, for him to permit himself to speak so forcibly to one above him. Yet though he argued as fiercely as he would allow himself, the mayor would not budge.

At length, in utter desperation, Javert said – “Let it be me who goes, at least. I will not allow him to slip through my fingers again.”

“You!” the mayor laughed. “He knows you, does he not? He would recognize you at once.”

“Convicts such as him see only the uniform – he will never recognize the man.”

On this point Javert was so persistent and so persuasive that the mayor at last was forced to concede. It was agreed that Javert would install himself in the ramshackle number 50-52 on the Boulevard de l’Hopital where the criminal and child were hidden away. A disguise was concocted at once, and after his whiskers had been shaved, his hair and glinting eyes hidden under a worker’s cap, and his immaculate uniforme replaced with dirtied, worn clothes, even the mayor conceded that Javert might go unrecognized. Some men wear the uniform of their work – Javert was possessed by his uniform and without it he ceased to give off the formidable air for which he was known; he did not stand quite as straight or seem quite as bold. On the contrary, he seemed ill at ease, and prone to the grimaces and quick nervous glances of someone who imagines they are being mocked. Utterly without effort, he became a different person.

So, within hours of receiving the news that Jean Valjean was alive again, Javert was being propelled to him once again. He did not reflect on the suddenness of this reunion; during the trip to the area of the city where the convict was ensconced, Javert remained deep in thought, as one who must quickly attempt to reassess and lay to rest many memories and many emotions in light of some new fact. In addition to this he was filled with an intolerable impatience, and by the time he arrived at his destination he was nearly trembling with untold emotion of one kind or another.

The address that the mayor had given Javert led him to a building even more dilapidated and filthy than he had expected. Standing at last in front of the house where Jean Valjean was hiding, Javert shuddered to think that he must stay there (even if, surely, only for a night or two) and at the same time felt some measure of satisfaction to see how far the convict had fallen since his days as M. le Maire.

After some minutes spent studying the house, during which time he unsuccessfully attempted to calm his thoughts and steady his hands, Javert knocked on the crude wooden door. There was the sound of footsteps hurtling down stairs, and the door opened to him.

Where he had expected to see Valjean’s face, however, there was only the musty darkness of a cramped and poorly lit stairway; Javert did not understand who had opened the door until a small voice in front of him said: “Hello.”

Javert looked down. A small child stood there, her hand still upon the door. She was exceedingly thin, and her eyes, which stared up at him wide and unblinking, were pitted with fatigue, but her hollow cheeks were rosy, and she was dressed warmly in new woolen clothes.

“I wish to speak to the woman who – “ Javert started stonily, without preamble, but his words died on his lips – he perceived movement in the dark, and from the shadows a familiar voice came, gently reproaching – “Cosette, have I not told you it is not safe to - ?” and then this voice stopped as well.

Jean Valjean, clad in a worn yellow coat, stood frozen on the stairs, his eyes fixed on Javert.

The silence lasted only a brief moment, but to Javert it was unendurable centuries. The folly of his position hit him suddenly and fully. How could he hope to obscure his identity with nothing more than old clothes and a few smudges of dirt? Valjean, too, had altered his appearance since last they met, and yet the sight of him was so familiar it took Javert’s breath away - how could he have ever entertained the possibility that this man, whose face had burned itself behind Javert’s eyelids, could not possess within him a similar indelible image of Javert?

Javert’s rough hands clenched at his side; his whole being shook imperceptibly with great emotion; it was only with much effort that he restrained himself from dropping the bag he carried, lunching forward, and seizing the convict by the collar before he could push past him and make his escape. Indeed, it was possible that some part of him had insisted to be sent here in the hopes of this very thing happening – although he would never dream of directly disregarding the mayor’s orders, if Valjean recognized him he would have no choice but to seize him immediately – and how he hungered to put Jean Valjean at his mercy once again!

But the long moment passed; Valjean blinked as if to rouse himself from a dream and said only, “Well, I suppose you are the lodger Madame Beaudin has found? Pardon my confusion, Monsieur. We had not expected you today.”

It is indicative of the convoluted, paradoxical nature of the connection they shared that when this moment passed, in spite of his fear, Javert felt a measure of angry humiliation mingled with his relief at going unrecognized by the man whose face he knew so well.

He did not trust himself to speak. He permitted himself only a stiff nod.

“Come, Cosette,” the criminal said, and the small girl turned and slipped her hand into his. “Madame Beaudin is not in, Monsieur; if you follow, we will show you your room.”

Thus Inspector Javert took his first step into the lair of the man whom he despised.


	2. Chapter 2

The stairs which the trio climbed were exceedingly old, and they groaned in protest even under the child’s light step. It is a testament to Javert’s stolidity and his unwavering dedication to his work that even as he advanced, shaken and vulnerable, into the darkness of an unknowable future, he stored this information away with a reflexive precision. He had discerned immediately that the noise would render an escape by these means impossible. No matter how carefully a man might tread, or how ardently he might desire silence, Javert felt confident that these ancient stairs would betray him.

As Javert’s shrewd mind was beginning to calculate whether the sound might permeate through the house to whichever distant corner of the house he had agreed to lend, Jean Valjean reached the top of these stairs and immediately thrust open a door on his right: the room in question was, in fact, situated immediately adjacent to these squealing stairs. To any other lodger, this would be a great misfortune; Javert had to work to mask his wolfish delight.

The room itself made this a much easier feat to accomplish. Simply by crossing its threshold, Javert stepped into a world of darkness and musty, ancient odors. From somewhere in the darkness, the frantic scuffling of small creatures could be perceived. He could not make more than a guess as to what type of beast made them: was not until Valjean followed with a candle he had retrieved from a holder in the hall that Javert could distinguish anything which lay within the room. Only then, in the flickering light, could his eye decipher the shapes of a mattress on the floor, a chair, and a chest of drawers against the wall: these were the only furnishings in that gloomy place. The attic ceiling slanted so dramatically that Javert could not take more than two steps into the room before he was forced to stoop forward; he remained by the door, surveying his new habitation with silent distaste.

During his many years in service to the law, Javert had found himself countless times in the habitations of the destitute; yet no matter how many times he was confronted with a miserable garret such as this, he always found himself filled with revulsion at the thought that people could consign themselves to such a life; he felt no small measure of contempt, and no compassion whatsoever, for the twisted creatures that crouched in attics and clothed themselves in rags.

Had he not once raised himself from out of the gutter? Could they not do the same, if only they tried?

 It was true, Javert’s own quarters were nearly as sparsely furnished as this, but it was by choice; they were austere, not dilapidated; they were clean-smelling; in the apartment which he had left this morning there was a desk at which to write, and a bed that was more than simply a slab on the floorboards, and – unimaginable luxury! - a window which admitted light.

For some moments, the two men and the girl stood silent in the doorway of that wretched place.

At length, Javert was drawn out of his ruminations by a growing awareness of Jean Valjean’s eyes fixed on his person. How curious is this instinctive ability which all humans possess to sense when they are being watched! Even blind men have known the unpleasant sensation of being closely studied.

This realization caused in Javert a deep uneasiness that he would not have felt had he been wearing his police attire, or if he had his heavy cane tucked securely under one arm. In the galleys, a convict could be punished for insubordination merely for raising his eyes to a guard; yet Javert took little comfort in this knowledge, or in knowing that he and Valjean had cast aside their true roles only temporarily. He sorely missed those incontestable physical reminders of the vast and uncrossable chasm which their roles in society had carved between the two of them.

As soon as Javert turned towards him the fugitive looked quickly away, and Javert knew that he had not been meant to realize that he was being watched.

“Madame Beaudin did not mention your name,” Valjean said, with the obvious intent of drawing attention away from this small indiscretion.

Javert kept his eyes upon him. “It is Dumont,” he answered, with the clipped air of someone who does not like the taste of his words. Even when spoken in the pursuit of justice, he had no love for lies.

“And you have not yet received your key?”

“A regrettable oversight.”

“Well! It is no matter, Cosette heard your knock.” Jean Valjean rested a calloused hand on the head of the child who stood like a shadow at his side. “She has been listening for your arrival all today, though you were not due until tomorrow. It is fortunate that she did so. I imagine you would have had quite a while to wait before Madame Beaudin returned from the market to admit you – and it is cold outside today.”

“Fortunate, perhaps;” Javert returned crisply, “though I have noticed little improvement from there to here.”

“Ah! Yes, well, there is no fire – there is little need to warm an empty room. And you were not expected until tomorrow.”

Javert imagined he detected a measure of accusation in the repetition of this statement; he felt displeased with the mayor for neglecting to alter the date of his arrival, or failing this, for not informing him of the agreed-upon time.

“Another miscommunication, I suppose,” he said dismissively, “one which I hope has caused inconvenience only to me. Madame Beaudin and I have yet to discuss certain small details; the arrangements were made quickly.”

“So they were. The previous tenant was scarcely out the door when the Madame mentioned she had found her replacement.”

Again Javert imagined he detected an accusation hidden within the words.

“It seems it was fortunate for her as well as I that our paths crossed when they did,” he said coolly.

“Oh! Yes! I suppose.” Valjean’s tone was mild to the point of immoderation.

“The good God has arranged our steps well.”

“That is obvious!”

“Monsieur, I hope you are not attempting to suggest—“ Javert’s voice was commanding. What it ordered, he could not tell.

The fugitive blinked. “Pardon me, Monsieur. I assure you, I attempt nothing.”

He spoke with an infuriating calmness which reminded Javert of speaking to Monsieur le Maire far more than to the prisoner 24,601; there was present in Jean Valjean’s demeanor the easy confidence of one who perceives no danger and believes himself on equal footing with the man whom he addresses. In addition to this, Javert detected a deeper meaning to all which the man said; this indirectness burned him. After fourteen months of believing this man dead, what agony to stand before him and do nothing more than play at polite conversation! He longed to seize the convict, to tear him loose of the child’s grip and toss him back against the wall; he yearned to clutch him by the lapels of his yellow coat and shake him and demand him to make his suspicions known; if he had been free to act as he pleased, Javert would have both demanded and entreated Jean Valjean to recognize and fear him.

Alas! Javert was bound to his duty by chains which were stronger than those from which Jean Valjean had escaped, for they held not his body prisoner, but his heart and soul. Such chains are made not of iron but of convictions; they have within them the power to bind a man so tightly, and yet so subtly, that he is rarely aware of their weight though he drags them with him wherever he goes. Javert was bound by such chains to an indefatigable sense of duty, and to an unfaltering and unquestioning obedience to his superiors; he never sought to free himself from his shackles, or strained against them with much strength, but on rare occasions he became conscious of how they crushed him.

Javert turned away from Jean Valjean and clasped his hands behind his back. With a conscious effort, he regained momentarily that autocratic bearing which his uniform afforded him so effortlessly. “Thank you, Monsieur, for showing me in. You will forgive me now if I desire some time alone to order my things.”

“Certainly, Monsieur,” said Jean Valjean. “Come, Cosette.”

But the child did not move. She had stayed utterly still since they entered the room, clutching Valjean’s coat with one hand and staring gravely up at Javert. Now she tugged on the fabric to which she clung, and Valjean obediently stooped to bring his ear closer to her lips. Javert could hear her childish whisper entreating:-

“Papa, now may I take him to see my lady?”

Throughout their conversation, Javert could not in all honesty declare that Jean Valjean had addressed him in any tone that could be considered anything less than polite, but at the sound of the child’s voice, every aspect of the convict’s demeanor grew exceedingly more warm and gentle. He touched a finger to the underside of her small chin, and said fondly:-

 “Perhaps later, my darling. He is busy – we must not disturb him.”

Javert turned again. “What’s this?”

“She has been planning to show you her doll.”

“Well! That is a different matter. Certainly, I can spare a moment for the child.”

In truth, and as the reader has doubtless instantly surmised, it was not at all for Cosette’s sake that Javert granted this request. Rather, he spied in it an opportunity which he had not previously had any hope of having: a chance to make an examination of the fugitive’s quarters in their natural state, before Valjean had been afforded a chance to hide or reorder anything. In his weakened and agitated state, Javert even experienced a moment of wild hope that there might be found there some piece of evidence so damning that he could arrest Valjean without further preamble.

“Are you certain?” Valjean asked him.

The reluctance in his question only strengthened the resolve in Javert’s answer.

“Quite. A few minutes’ delay in starting a fire will cause no great harm. I do not believe the room can grow any colder.”

The girl looked delighted; the criminal unsure; yet when she turned to him with her pale eyes sparkling, he nodded minutely in approval.

Valjean straightened up, and she placed her hand in his once more; she seemed quite unable to exist for more than a few moments without attaching herself to him in some way. She led the two men to a room down the hall, to the right of Javert’s new quarters. As soon as he crossed into that room, Javert’s cold eyes immediately began to scrutinize its every feature.

There was, in truth, not very much to see. The room was much larger than Javert’s, and markedly less gloomy, but very nearly as bare. Aside from a small fire burning in an ancient stove, the only light was admitted through a small window; Javert was relieved to note that although the girl might have wormed through it, it was much too small to accommodate Jean Valjean’s broad frame.

That much was confirmed, at least: the only clearly visible means of escape was through the hall, past Javert’s room, and down the creaking stairs.

There was a wooden door across the room from that strange trio, and once she had crossed the threshold of their doorway, the child released her hold on Jean Valjean and scampered away to this other room. Presently there came from within the sounds of a search being carried out.

As the two men waited for her return, Javert’s gaze fell upon a wooden table which stood in a dark corner of the room that he had initially overlooked. On this was scattered a small assortment of possessions: a few changes of clothes; one or two books; two long objects wrapped in rags through which patches of silver glinted.

Javert, who possessed an indelible memory of all reported crimes, and especially those crimes which had been linked to Jean Valjean, at once realized he was looking at the candlesticks when had been stolen from the Bishop of D___ many years prior. And here they were wrapped in rags, as if to protect them during a journey - !

Javert’s heart jumped; he strolled towards the table with feigned indifference.

“You are preparing for a trip?” he asked keenly.

“Nothing so pleasant, I’m afraid.”

Such had been Javert’s interest in this discovery that he had utterly failed to notice Jean Valjean follow him towards the table, and his voice surprised him with its proximity.

“There have recently been reports of thievery in this neighborhood; I have been making an account of our valuables and trying to devise some new hiding-spot for them. I might advise you to do the same.”

As he spoke, Valjean swept up the items in his arms and began putting them away in a dresser a little distant from the table.

Javert was about to press further on this topic, but at that moment Cosette reappeared at the door, distress writ clear on her face. She twisted the fabric of her dress around her little red fingers; tears were in her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice wavered uncontrollably. “Papa – Papa, Catherine is missing, she is gone, I cannot find her.”

Valjean knelt and stretched his arms out to her. “Come here, my darling. There – do not cry! You had her this morning; she is only lost; we will find her.”

But Cosette’s face had begun to crumple in childish anguish, and as she wrapped her arms around Valjean’s neck, tears began coursing down her thin cheeks. “I looked, Papa, she is not here! Oh, Papa, they have come and taken her away! I knew that they would!”

In fact, Javert had spied the doll lying half covered on the mattress in the corner moments after he entered the room, but, guessing from its size and ornateness that it was the doll which Cosette had referred to as her “lady,” he had seen fit to conceal this information a little while in order to grant himself more time to inspect his surroundings. Now, however, the child was beginning to cry in earnest, and Javert saw little point in attempting to continue his search of this barren room.

“Calm yourself, child,” he told her sharply. “Look, it is lying on the bed in the corner – there! Unless you have a younger sister who is sleeping.”

 At these words the girl halted her sobs, rushed to the mattress, and flung aside the coverlet, where the doll was discovered.

 “She is here!” she cried. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur!”

And carrying the doll with great care in both her arms, she brought it back to Javert, darting little glances at Valjean to ensure that he remained close at hand. The light of the fire sparkled in the tracks of tears on her cheeks, but she had ceased to cry.

“This is Catherine. She thanks you, too,” she told him, beaming through her tears. She did not seem to be able to resist adding, in accents of childish wonder, “Isn’t she lovely, Monsieur?”

Javert stooped down before her to examine the doll more closely. It was nearly two feet tall, and dressed ornately in a gown of silk and lace.

“She must have cost your father a great deal,” he said coolly.

“In better times it did not seem so much,” said Jean Valjean. He had moved to stand behind Cosette.

Javert looked up at him. “It might still fetch a decent price.”

Jean Valjean put a hand on the child’s shoulder. “That does not matter. You have seen how she cares for the doll. There is no amount of money that I would accept in exchange for Cosette’s happiness.”

Javert made no reply. His stone heart was not charmed by this remark, or by the way the child clutched her toy; he read in them not the love of a doting father but the bruise of an abusive man. Kind words and expensive gifts counted for very little in his estimation: how many times in his years as a police inspector had he had occasion to witness the most wretched and pitiable sight of a woman or child beaten half to death, then showered with kisses and presents from her assailant?

Javert knew that Jean Valjean was not capable of love, as he knew that the sun rose each morning, and as he knew that God was good and just.

This doll had been paid for with a promise of silence, or it had been the crudest, most vile form of apology. It had not been given with kind heart and pure motive.

Javert spoke some perfunctory words of approval which satisfied the child and, after making one final, searching glance around the room, he excused himself to his quarters. There he lit a candle, sat down in the stiff wooden chair, and gave himself up to thought.

It is necessary to halt the story here to provide some few words which might begin to explain Javert’s excessively harsh conclusions. It is impossible to excuse the cruelty of which Javert was capable, or to justify the pain which he caused honest men such as Jean Valjean. And yet it will not do to diminish this upright, incorruptible, tragic man to the role of a soulless villain, who commits unspeakable acts for no reason other than for the pleasure which he derives from witnessing the suffering of an innocent man.

O, reader! You will do well to remember that every man has a heart; Javert’s was carved from stone, but still it beat, and at times it bled. It had learned to pour all its hope and all its faith into imperishable ideals of absolute justice and celestial perfection, which, being by their nature impossible to achieve in this life, cannot ever disappoint or be proven unworthy of devotion. In the many long years of his life, Javert’s heart had been assailed by many abject and terrible things; from nearly the moment he had arrived into the world, it had born witness to the atrocities which man commits against his brother. It had been trained to doubt, to suspect, to see the worst in the hearts which surrounded it. It had trembled, it had wept; it had at last hardened itself into unbreakable stone.

We scarcely need say that it had never learned much of love.

Though all but the most inattentive reader of this sad story will find it impossible to doubt the depths of devotion which Jean Valjean felt for the child in his care, it must be remembered that Javert had not the reader’s benefit of observing Jean Valjean through the many life-altering events which had occurred after he left the gallows behind him, or of glimpsing into his private thoughts, or of ever knowing with certainty what lay in his heart. He had met Jean Valjean when the man was a nameless slave with a shaved head and a heart calloused and bruised by years of being treated like a beast. Javert had known Valjean best before this sad and withered heart had been wrested from hate and surrendered up to God; because Javert had not witnessed this moment of rebirth with his own eyes, he refused to believe it had occurred.

As Javert sat in meditation in the darkness of his room, his keen ears straining for any sound from the stairway, a change began to take form within him. He thought of Valjean, frozen on the stairs, of Valjean stowing away those silver candlesticks for so many years, of Valjean’s hand gripping the child’s shoulder, and began to feel, without ever being consciously aware of feeling it, that it would not satisfy him to merely arrest Jean Valjean. A year ago, it had been enough for him to simply hear that Jean Valjean had been captured, and to think that somewhere, many leagues distant, he was receiving his just reward.

But this was before Valjean had been swallowed by the ocean and before Javert had spent fourteen months believing him to be dead.

Now the sudden, hot realization began to well up within him that it would not suffice for Jean Valjean to be brought to justice; he would not be satisfied unless he himself had fastened the chains which would bind him – and after he caught him, it would not do to send him to an unknown prison, to be watched by an anonymous guard! What if he was permitted to escape again?

Or worse: what if he was allowed to die?

Javert thought of Valjean’s mild, unconcerned voice; he pictured Valjean’s clear eyes, which pierced though him one moment and the next swept over him as easily as if he had been an overly familiar part of the landscape, and became overwhelmed with a desire not just to apprehend him but to possess him, to punish him, to utterly control him, to have him always within his sight and reach and under his command.

This altered motive came with no obvious rationale; it existed not in his head, but in his chest, and there only as a rasping, angry heat that violently fanned when the convict bestowed upon him one of those overlong glances, or violated some new personal boundary; henceforth Javert denied it, or explained it away with sharp, silent words, when it could no longer be denied.

He remained deep in thought, leaning forward in his chair, unconscious of the cold and the near-darkness, for he knew not how long. At length he heard a soft groan from the stairs which brought him to his feet so quickly that his head smacked against the rafters and the world spun.

It was only the housekeeper, back from the market and mounting the steps to her modest kitchen; spying Javert through the crack he had opened in his door, she greeted him in surprise and enlisted him first to carry her basket up the steps and then to assist her in preparing the evening meal.

As he hacked up potatoes for stew and strained his ears for any sound from the stairs, the woman attempted to fill him in on her many suspicions about the man he chased.

“That yellow frock coat of his is lined with thousand franc notes,” she told him, in a conspiratorial and overly familiar air at which he chafed. “He passes them out to criminals disguised as beggars on the streets.”

And:-

“He never works, but he sneaks out every evening to I don’t know where, and always returns empty-handed, at that.”

And:-

“He beats that poor child, you know. I have heard her cry out in the night.”

 These were but a few of a score of accusations which the old woman had built up in preparation for his arrival; Javert made a careful note of each tale in turn, but he would have believed them far more readily had it not been for her exceedingly gossipy tone and a subtle air of self-satisfaction that accompanied all she said.

The supper itself was uneventful; the adults spoke but little, and Javert learned only that Jean Valjean was known to the housekeeper as Monsieur Fournier. However, the following incident occurred then, as well; it is transcribed here largely for the effect it had on Jean Valjean, and subsequently on Javert.

Throughout the meal Javert was conscious of Cosette sneaking troubled glances at him, and after some time, just as he was resolving to demand what it was that she found so intriguing, Jean Valjean seemed to read his expression, put down his spoon, and said:-

“Well, Cosette, speak - is something the matter?”

Cosette looked uncertain a moment longer; then she leaned towards Valjean and whispered, quite loud enough for everyone at the table to hear:-

 “Papa, is the new man a fornicator?”

She struggled a little with the pronunciation of such a large word, but its meaning was nevertheless exceedingly clear. Javert choked on a spoonful of broth; the housekeeper let out an involuntary gasp of horror; Cosette’s papa tried inexpertly to cover his startled laugh by feigning a cough into his fist.

“That I could not say,” he told Cosette, with an air of fatherly indulgence which was almost serene. “You would have to ask M. Dumont, I suppose - but Cosette, it is not -”

“She shall ask no such thing!” the housekeeper interjected, with a look at Jean Valjean that would have turned a weaker man to stone. “Child, where did you get such an obscene idea?”

Cosette twirled her spoon in her stew, nervous at having provoked such an extreme reaction but unaware, in that unparalleled innocence of childhood, of the gravity of what she had suggested.

“He is using Madame Thierrey’s old room,” she said hesitantly. “He will be sleeping in her old bed. The Good Book says that men and women who share a bed are fornicators –“

At this point she stopped abruptly and stared with wide eyes at her father. Jean Valjean was no longer making any attempt to hide his amusement: his shoulders shook with his quiet laughter.

“Forgive her, Madame,” he said at length, when he had begun to recover himself. “I have been teaching her to read. I assign her verses to learn but she is overeager – she devours whole chapters. Sometimes there is confusion.”

The woman gave a small grunt of disapproval and said no more, though it was clear she had stowed away this offense to add to her list of M. Fournier’s many misdeeds; Jean Valjean, for his part, could be observed leaning close to poor confused Cosette and murmuring some quiet words of praise concerning her reading ability, which succeeded in removing the worried expression from her little face.

Throughout this, Javert remained utterly silent. He had received a shock to the very core of being – yet it was not the child’s impropriety which had unsettled him so deeply. He felt quite certain that he had never before observed Jean Valjean in such a state – not in any of the multitude of times he had seen the prisoner 24,601 toiling in the galleys or at rest in his cell, nor in the many years when he had silently observed Monsieur le Maire in M. sur M., had he ever seen Jean Valjean laugh with abandon, or smile a smile that betrayed no trace of sadness. Javert had long ago come to the conclusion that the convict was incapable of feeling any emotion so innocent; this new evidence now clashed with the old belief, and rendered Javert thoroughly unsettled. For some time after that first evening in number 50-52, when left to its own devices Javert’s mind would drift to the image of Jean Valjean laughing, and then he would drive himself half mad trying to convince himself that it had been nothing more than a calculated performance which the fugitive had only recently mastered.

In the midst of this confusion, it will be noted that no one thought to correct Cosette of her mistake, and so she continued to hold this mistaken image of “Monsieur Dumont” for quite some time. Yet despite believing him guilty of committing a sin each night in going to his bed, Cosette continued to see this new lodger as “the man who found Catherine” and treated him with great kindness and friendliness. One must marvel at the great feats of forgiveness of which children are often capable, and which adults so often outgrow.

Now, it is necessary before this chapter draws to a close, to give an account of one more event which took place on that first day which Javert and Jean Valjean spent together at number 50-52. It may seem to the reader to be of little importance, but we would be remiss if we did not include it in this narration, for to the men involved it held a curious significance. It is often the case in life that the most mundane and unlikely incidents are the ones which take on the most importance in the strange and unpredictable minds of men; a few uneventful hours which should have been forgotten bury themselves unbidden into one’s memory, until the occasion becomes meaningful simply by virtue of continued presence in one’s mind. It often happens that, twenty years later, one can recall some such seemingly insignificant event with the same clarity, or more, than one can those events in one’s life which had seemed of great importance at the time. Such an indelible memory was formed that evening at number 50-52; we shall give a short account of it, and see if we cannot find some reason for its significance.

As the housekeeper had told Javert, Jean Valjean was in the habit of leaving number 50-52 each evening and strolling about the neighborhood, often with little Cosette by his side. As that first evening stretched on and Javert did not hear the convict’s foot upon the stairs, he began to grow increasingly restless and impatient. If the convict harbored any suspicions as to Javert’s identity, the pretext of an evening walk was sure to provide him with an opportunity to escape; if he remained confident in his security, he might leave the house attempting to make contact with his confederate. Whatever Valjean hoped to accomplish that evening, Javert intended to be there to observe it or thwart it.

It was not until close to nightfall that the stairs at last began to creak; at the sound, Javert leapt to his feet at once. He thrust open the door, spied Valjean descending the stairs alone, and cried in tones of vicious cheer:-

“Ah, you are going out!”

In Javert’s mind, he had caught Valjean in the middle of committing some misdeed; as a result, he had expected some guilty, startled reaction from the fugitive. He was slightly disappointed when Valjean only turned, ran his eyes over Javert’s attire, and said:-

“If I am not mistaken, it appears that you have similar intentions.”

“You are not - it has been an eventful day; I am full of energy, I cannot concentrate,” Javert said. He wished it had been a lie: the unavoidable truth in the words needled him. “I thought a walk might calm me.”

Valjean said that evening walks were indeed quite calming, and turned once more to continue his descent. Javert followed him utterly without meaning to; some powerful unseen force seemed to compel him to match every step of Jean Valjean’s with one of his own.

“Then perhaps we might walk together,” he said abruptly, in a stiff voice.

Valjean turned and looked at him again and agreed that they might.

It was a quiet and unpleasant walk. The snow on the ground had been dirtied by the day’s traffic; the evening was cold, and the air stung their exposed faces. They did not talk much at first; Javert presented Valjean with tense and flinty inquiries regarding the housekeeper, their decrepit home, the rash of crime in the neighborhood, and finally Cosette; only on this last topic could Valjean be coerced to say more than a few indifferent words. In fact, once he had started on this subject he seemed utterly unable to stop, and almost against his will he enthused in his quiet way at great length about her intelligence, her gentleness, and her childish wit. Javert had neither a need nor a desire to hear these displays of devotion; as Valjean spoke, Javert kept up an inner dialogue of unforgiving dismissals, excuses, and rationalizations for all that the criminal said.

They made their way to the Seine and walked along its banks for some short time, having run out of the momentum it would have taken to continue across the bridge and plunge themselves deeper into the city. In the extreme cold, the edges of the river had begun to freeze; the setting sun glinted off the ice, and turned the surface of the murky, smelling waters into a dazzling mosaic of reds and golds. Valjean expressed regret that he had not brought Cosette along with them; Javert grunted noncommittally in reply.

They made the return journey to number 50-52 in the dark, with their collars turned up against a harsh wind and their freezing hands thrust into their pockets. Their limited store of topics for conversation exhausted, they did not speak much, and when they re-entered the house and climbed the squealing stairs, they parted without fanfare.

As we have indicated, there was little about this short excursion which presents any inherent interest or importance; yet it imprinted itself in the memories of both Jean Valjean and Javert more than anything else which had taken place that day. That is not to say that it was a pleasant memory for either of the two men: now is not the place to say what Jean Valjean thought of this outing, but we can tell you that for Javert it was nigh unbearable. Javert had not only had his patience sorely tested by Jean Valjean’s silence during his attempted interrogation, he had also spent the entire excursion hounded by the fear of being recognized by some criminal who possessed a less contemptibly deficient memory for faces than did Jean Valjean.

Yet the greatest cause by far of Javert’s displeasure had not been frustration at being hindered in his investigations, or fear for the security of his false identity; rather, it was a direct result of the one sin which Javert committed with abandon: pride. Throughout the whole of that outing, there was not a moment when he was not painfully conscious of the strange indignity of walking next to the criminal Jean Valjean; though Javert had pursued him or led him in turns for so many years, not once, even in M. Sur M., had Javert ever deigned to walk at Jean Valjean’s side, matching his stride, acting as his equal.

One wonders if perhaps it was this which Javert could fault for the manner in which that brief walk stuck in his memory. For those lucky pairs of people who have been blessed with the ability to coexist and to bring bliss rather than misery into the lives of their partner, such commonplace episodes are the first tastes of a life spent in one another’s company; the newness and breathless unfamiliarity of an action completed in tandem is often sufficient to elevate mundane occurrences to the status of cherished memory.

It is only natural that fated adversaries, those doomed and desperate souls, experience their own bitter, distorted version of this phenomenon: as lovers recall with fondness the circumstances of their first embrace, so Javert became plagued by the memory of the first time he walked by Valjean’s side.


End file.
